


Lost Types of Men

by southernrefugee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Omega Verse, Puberty, References to Knotting, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/southernrefugee/pseuds/southernrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic is a dangerous force.  The Maesters of the citadel have been trying to eliminate it for centuries, and had mostly succeeded.  They reduced magic to the point that the histories of its use had faded to legend and myth and much and more was forgotten.  But nature moves in cycles, and does not take kindly to the interference of man.  Magic has long been returning, for at least one score years.  It has been slow returning, like the incoming tide.  Until the Mother of Dragons brought it back in a flood.</p><p>The return of a fundamental force of nature was not an isolated event.  The world flooded with magic, welcoming back a vital part of its nature.  Spells began to work, glass candles began to burn, and dragons flew once more.  Wargs returned, and they were not alone.  Long lost types of men, and their component abilities, came back to a world unprepared.</p><p>An OmegaVerse Story about the men and boys who have these parts of their nature reawoken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awoken: Joffrey I

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt writing in this genre, and my first NSFW story that I am posting. It's an experiment to see if I can handle the less-common genres, so feedback is welcome! Characters are not mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt writing in this genre, and my first NSFW story that I am posting. It's an experiment to see if I can handle the less-common genres, so feedback is welcome! Characters are not mine.

Magic is a dangerous force. The Maesters of the citadel have been trying to eliminate it for centuries, and had mostly succeeded. They reduced magic to the point that the histories of its use had faded to legend and myth and much and more was forgotten. But nature moves in cycles, and does not take kindly to the interference of man. Magic has long been returning, for at least one score years. It has been slow returning, like the incoming tide. Until the Mother of Dragons brought it back in a flood.

The return of a fundamental force of nature was not an isolated event. The world flooded with magic, welcoming back a vital part of its nature. Spells began to work, glass candles began to burn, and dragons flew once more. Wargs returned, and they were not alone. Long lost types of men, and their component abilities, came back to a world unprepared.

* * * * *

The blond-haired prince slammed the heavy, dark-wooded door as he stalked into his chambers. Stripping his sweat-stained tunic from his body, Joffrey winced at the new bruises he had and silently cursed his mother. Day after day, with these lessons, teachings and arms training. It had been past sunset when they had finished today, because the Queen “worried if her son could defend himself if attacked in the dark.” Joffrey shook his head and felt one of the many bruises littering his arms and torso. A gasp of pain escaped his pale throat. This one would take a while to heal. Briefly considering and rejecting the possibility of calling a Maester, Joffrey stripped off his small clothes and moved towards his bed.

Confusion whirled under the blonde's curls. While his destiny of becoming king had always been assured, it had never felt quite right. His father had _taken_ the throne. The boy was not even sure he wanted it. Unbidden, his mind went to the one time he had mentioned such thoughts, around his eighth nameday, as old as his brother was now. He had been speaking to his mother, and he had tried his best to express what he meant. He was unsure whether he had succeeded—it was a complex matter for a young boy to describe, particularly one who had been told his whole life something completely contrary. Whether the young prince had been clear or not, his mother had slapped him across the face. Joffrey flinched with the memory. _One, two, three_. Three sharp strikes, fifty lashes (administered by him) to his whipping boy, and a harsh lecture. He had never brought it up again, but the thought had stayed with him, always just beneath the surface. Despite assurances that “all rulers have doubts,” and “You are young, it will change,” he still felt unfit to rule.

The prince glanced out of the window at the moonless and star-filled sky over the fires of the city. _My city_. _My kingdom_. The thought still felt strange. Over the past few days, his doubts seemed to have grown larger. They had morphed from a nagging suspicion that he was not meant for the throne to a serious consideration that it was not his place. _Why me?_ _There are others who are far better suited_. When ever he tried to be a king, to flex his power and fulfill his role, it always ended terribly.

As the boy walked to his bed, blowing out candles, he winced at the memories, the pain more real than the thought of his mother's slaps.'

 _The cat._ He was curious, and he was to be king. _Mother had told me to take what I wanted, it was my right as a king._ But she had been horrified...

 _The Stark girl and the wolf._ If Sansa was to be his lady, he _had_ to protect her. That was the role of any man, not just a king. And after that... _Mother says any who dare to attack the royal family must be punished swiftly. She also said that the king must always have done no wrong, and that is all the public should know._ But the wolf was dead, the boy too, Sansa hated him, and there was much and more tension in the Red Keep...

 _The cripple boy._ His mother still did not know that was him. Neither did his father. Joffrey had hoped the King would be proud, but had never gotten the chance to explain that he had followed through on his sire's sentiments. _Mother AND Father both though the boy was better off dead_. As prince, and eventual king, was it not his duty to help his people? But the attack had failed, Lady Stark had taken his uncle, and violence was spreading across Westeros...

Extinguishing the final candle, Prince Joffrey slipped into his bed. The night was dark, without a moon, and he lay in the dark for several minutes. _If every time I act as a king, terrible things occur, why should I be King?_ _Is blood really all that gives one the right? If so, Aerys had the right, and father did not._ The boy did not feel as though he should, or even could, sit the Iron Throne. Tormented by his demons, but exhausted by the day's training, the blonde prince slipped into a fitful sleep.

* * * * *

Joffrey awoke with a start, suddenly escaping from strange and confusing dreams. If was, however, far from a respite. The covers were tangled, wrapping around the blonde boy's too-hot body. He lay on his stomach, burning all over. If felt as if his skin was on fire. His muscles were taut as a bow, body arching, his ass lifting off the bed, in a position that, deep inside, felt _right._ Forcing conscious control onto his limbs, he rolled himself over. His own body seemed to fight him, and he felt an incessant urge to return to the other position. The prince lay on his back for the moment, flailing in an attempt to get out from under the suffocating blankets. They flew off, but his flesh burned still hotter. His member was stiff and throbbing, and the boy was only comfortable with his face and chest pushed against the bed. But all the pain, all the sensations, paled in comparison to the burning feeling around his rear hole. Moving his hand to the center of his ache, Joffrey found the hole weeping, some strange fluid coming from the puffy, swollen orifice. The liquid was all over his thighs, even soaking into the bedding. He cried out as his digits swept over the tight ring, and pulled his hands to his chest in fear. The heat grew stronger at the touch, moving over his torso in waves, his body melting as the desires grew even stronger. The prince barely had the strength to yell for a Maester, his body electrified and burning, back arching desperately, as he was filled with some unimaginable _need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've kind of rewritten Joffrey here, but we never had a POV for him, so I was looking for another explanation of his character. All feedback and comments are welcome!


	2. Waking Up: Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is a dangerous force. The Maesters of the citadel have been trying to eliminate it for centuries, and had mostly succeeded. They reduced magic to the point that the histories of its use had faded to legend and myth and much and more was forgotten. But nature moves in cycles, and does not take kindly to the interference of man. Magic has long been returning, for at least one score years. It has been slow returning, like the incoming tide. Until the Mother of Dragons brought it back in a flood.
> 
> The return of a fundamental force of nature was not an isolated event. The world flooded with magic, welcoming back a vital part of its nature. Spells began to work, glass candles began to burn, and dragons flew once more. Wargs returned, and they were not alone. Long lost types of men, and their component abilities, came back to a world unprepared.
> 
> An OmegaVerse Story about the men and boys who have these parts of their nature reawoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt writing in this genre, and my first NSFW story that I am posting. It's an experiment to see if I can handle the less-common genres, so feedback is welcome! Characters are not mine.

Bran woke with excitement. The days were full of it, as the North's army prepared to march south. They were expected to leave in less than three week's time, and all the boys of Winterfell, even the young lord, were incredibly excited.

His excitement faded to a blend of irritation, confusion and fear as he felt himself hard beneath the furs. _Still?_ It had been like this for two days now, refusing to go down. Bran was young, but he understood what an erection was and what it meant, and had even tried getting rid of it as his brother had taught him. It had been pleasant, as always, but, unlike previous times, his cock refused to go down.

His body had been misbehaving in many ways for a few days now. He got strange urges, _powerful_ urges, with some of the girls (and, to his distress, more of the boys) around Winterfell. When he had relieved the pressure below, he had found a large bulge appeared at the base of his member, one that had appeared as he finished and stayed for several hours. While Bran had pleasured himself only a few times, _that_ certainly had never happened before. His senses felt sharper, particularly his sense of smell, and he found that certain odors _excited_ him in ways that he could not have believed. The young lord was convinced that his member had grown, too, being certainly bigger than three days before, and, when he had finished, he had produced far more seed than any previous time.

Bran sighed. He had promised himself that if it did not change by today, he would go and see Maester Luwin. The boy did not look forward to that conversation. He was still quite young, and sexual matters were still quite awkward.

Maoving slowly, trying to drag it out and delay his visit, Bran retrieved his clothing and dressed, pulling on his tunic and doublet. Once ready, he called for Hodor. The giant stable boy had been waiting for him to wake up and quickly opened the door. “Hodor!” he said, as usual.

Bran smiled a bit, and nodded. “Good morning, Hodor. Please take me to the Maester's Tower.” At this time of the morning, he knew that was where Maester Luwin would be.

Hodor hodored and walked over to pick up the young lord, cradling the small male in his giant arms. Bran's could pick up Hodor's feral scent, smelling more like an animal than a human. It was a strange, earthy scent, but it was somehow comforting. It was calming, familiar, and, though he had not been able to smell it a few days before, he was certain Hodor had always smelled this way. It was a nice reprieve from the smells that elicited other, more complex and confusing, reactions from him.

Once in the Maester's Tower, with Hodor dismissed, Bran struggled with what to say. He felt a blush rising on his cheeks, and could not meet his tutor's gaze. Finally, the Maester spoke up.

“Bran, are you having some sort of...difficulty?” the old man asked tactfully. Bran sighed again, giving a slight nod in response. Was it really a surprise Luwin could read him so well? The man had delivered him, and had seen him at least once a day for most of the time since!

“Is it...somewhat personal or embarrassing?” The Maester's calm, stable tones soothed Bran. He nodded once more.

“It's...down there,” he said, gesturing towards his crotch. The old man nodded, chain rattling gently with the motion.

“I see,” he said, his voice suggesting wisdom and concern, but also confidence and trust. “Bran, all boys go through a change around this time. You are perhaps a _bit_ young, but it is not unheard of—“

“That's not it,” Bran said roughly, rolling his eyes. When he saw the shocked expression on the Maester's face, Bran realized he had interrupted the old man, and rather rudely at that. He was _never_ that rude, but for the last few days he had been so arrogant and terse. _What is wrong with me_?

“Maester Luwin—,” he said, stuttering for a moment. “I apologize,” he added quickly, “but that is exactly the problem. For a few days, my words have been quick and rude, my mind full of strange, powerful urges, and I have been constantly,” he said with a blush and a look to his groin, “...up.” As he was speaking, he felt all the words wanting to come out, to explain it all to Maester Luwin. Bran paused to take a breath, barely enough time for Maester Luwin's brow to furrow and the old man to say “I see,” with a nod, and continued speaking. The words flowed like they had a will of their own.

“I have...relieved myself down there, and it did nothing. It has been stiff for three days now. When I tried to get rid of it, when I finished, a bulge appeared at the base for a long time.” He failed to meet the Maester's gaze as he said that, eyes fixed on the floor in embarrassment, but the words kept coming. “My senses feel sharper, especially smell. I have been arrogant and rough, like I want to fight—I _do_ want to fight! And, I think that I,” he added, with anothergesture to his nether regions, “have grown in the past three days.”

Maester Luwin nodded as Bran took deep breath, suddenly aware that he had not inhaled as his words were tumbling out. “Oh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “Bigger?”

Bran nodded, his cheeks burning. “Bigger when...stiff.” The last word was barely whispered. “Maybe a half of an inch or a a bit more? Compared to a few days ago, I mean. And, um,” he blushed harder, “when I relieved it, the liquid... the seed... was white, which never happened before, and a lot more came out than usual, too.”

Maester Luwin gazed at Bran, an expression of deep thought on his face as he nodded. Bran would have sworn he saw an instant of recognition in those old eyes, but it was gone almost immediately, before the young lord could be certain he had even seen it. The boy sighed, making eye contact once more. The worst was over, he had told the old man the truth, and hopefully he could help.

Maester Luwin pressed him for details, which the boy gave, about the urges and the bulge, as well as general questions about his health and habits. The old man gave Bran's nether regions a quick examination that made the young boy blush heavily, and checked for other signs of sickness. When they were done, Bran was certain the old man knew something—he could see it in those wise eyes, and the expression on the man's face—but he could not guess what it was, and the Maester would not tell him. “I must check my sources,” the man insisted, and Bran wondered what he meant. The old man would not answer, however, and Bran returned to his chambers, preparing for his duties that day. His mind, however, could not escape the recognition he had seen in Maester Luwin's eyes, and the mystery of what strange affliction had beset him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! What could be wrong with Bran? Tune in next time! All comments and feedback is much appreciated and will be responded to with imaginary cookies.


	3. Dreams: Jojen I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt writing in this genre, and my first NSFW story that I am posting. It's an experiment to see if I can handle the less-common genres, so feedback is welcome! Characters are not mine.
> 
> *****EDITED because I uploaded the wrong copy*****

Jojen lay on the bed, panting as his fingers reached for his hole. His thighs and legs were slick, the fluid dripping onto the blankets as the young greenseer forced his ass as high into the air as he could. His face was pressed against the mattress, his back arching to the point of pain, but the position felt right.

 

The young Lord Reed had been grateful that his sister had agreed to splurge on _two_ rooms at the inn for the next few days, with no questions. They occasionally had stayed in inns on their journey north, but they never wasted gold on two rooms. They had been moving every day, so the request for several nights was also strange, but he believed that Meera knew enough about his condition to hold no desire to know more.

 

The boy's slim body shook with need, tormented with desire, as he pushed two fingers into his drenched and puffy entrance. His body was aflame, and his mind was filled with visions that would send most septons into a coma. Snippets from greendreams, other dreams, and some just from his imagination filled Jojen's head as he began to pump his fingers in and out. The effort did very little, but it did help _some,_ his aching need diminishing a tiny amount.

 

His first “heat,” as he now knew it to be called, had been by the far the worst. Awaking in the middle of the night, with terrible thoughts and strange effects on his body, had been terrifying. The greenseer had wondered if this was his death that he had foreseen, more terrible than he had ever imagined—some sickness that took him as he lived in The Neck, so he died without having any impact on the world.

 

Jojen pushed his fingers even more, forcing in a third and trying to reach the depths, to sate that _need_. No matter how he tried, he could not do it. It was too deep, too primal, of a desire. His back arched desperately, and he forced his face into a pillow to muffle his frustrated and desperate whimpers.

 

The crannogmen still knew that many of the realm's “legends” were fact. Their healers remembered the days of alphas and omegas, and had explained such to the Lord Reed and his son, once the boy was coherent. Howland had taken it in stride. “It means you are even closer to magic, to nature, to the First Men than we had thought,” the boy remembered his father saying. Both the healers and his sire had assured Jojen that there was no shame in being an omega—most bannermen were long ago—and that the thoughts and desires he had were perfectly were natural for what he was. His father had even encouraged him to use his fingers, if it helped! The boy had tried to avoid it, finding the act shameful, but those words (and the aching desire) had convinced him.

 

Grinding his hips on the mattress, his hand moving at a frenzied pace behind him, Jojen finally spent himself on the bed. The burning did not change, fluid still leaked from his hole, and his member remained as stiff and sensitive as ever. The boy collapsed, exhausted. As his tortured body slipped beneath the thin veil of fitful sleep, a new face joined the deviant images in his head—the wolf boy, the one he was to guide, _Bran_.

 

* * * * *

 

For the days he spent in heat, Meera would bring him food and water. She would knock on the door, he would wrap himself in the unbearable hot blanket, and she would bring it in. Few words were exchanged, as Jojen did not want to discuss his condition, and he sensed his sister did not want to know.

 

He would eat what he could, sleep when his body would let him, but mostly he would simply wait it out, toying with his body or dwelling in the ever-present burning and desire.

 

When his cycle finally ended, Jojen walked weakly over to Meera's room, wrapped in the blanket and shivering, and asked if she could find him a place he could bathe. His legs were coated with the fluid that he leaked during heat and his entire body covered in sweat and his own seed. She nodded quickly, a wary look appearing in her eyes at her disheveled younger brother, and quickly hurried off. He went back to his room and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, his body recovering from the ordeal.

 

He awoke hours later, as his sister knocked at the door, reporting she had found a place for him to bathe, but they would need to leave that day. Jojen was back to himself, nodding solemnly and agreeing that they needed to move on. After scrubbing the dirty liquids from his flesh, Jojen dressed and the the siblings paid their fare and left the inn. Winterfell was not much further North, and the chained wolf was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we meet another who seems to have the same problem as Joffrey! And we learn a bit more about what the problem is...\
> 
> Positive and negative feedback is appreciated!


	4. Disappearing in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took so long. Look at the bottom for more info on that. 
> 
> Also, THIRTEEN subscribers!? What? I don't deserve that. I love ALL of you! 
> 
> This is my first attempt writing in this genre, and my first NSFW story that I am posting. It's an experiment to see if I can handle the less-common genres, so feedback is definitely desired! Characters are not mine.
> 
> ****EDITED: because I used the wrong name for a character because I'm dumb like that****

Maester Pycelle's diagnosis had not been taken well. Joffrey had been shamed and confused, once his heat had begun to diminish. The thoughts and desires he had experienced were unaccpetable for any man, much less a king. It was just another reason that he was not the right man for the throne. His mother's reaction to the diagnosis had been worse. She had been incredibly angry, and had blamed the boy. She had not hit him, he was grateful, but her words had stung worse than most blows. She was a clever woman, and knew how to hurt people.

Joffrey reflected on that as he stood at the Mud Gate, looking at the gate from under his hood. _Does she think that I chose to be this...._ _ **thing**_ _? I didn't decide to be this, any more than I decided to be the heir apparent._ Maybe she hoped her cruelty would make the Omega inside him go away. Maybe she thought that her actions would keep him in line—that otherwise he would use this as an argument against his future as king. Maybe she blamed him for forces beyond his control. Or maybe his mother was angry, and when she was angry, she hurt people.

The prince continued to look at the gate, which was closed for the night. He knew that, past those doors, lay the Blackwater Rush. Past those doors, lay his future and his destiny. A rough hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Glancing up, Joffrey saw it was indeed the Hound, who had come back from talking to the guards. He smiled faintly. The Hound had always been there for him, hadn't judged his choices. It seemed that only this man did not pressure him to fulfill some specific role.

During several of his heat's, Joffrey had considered calling in the Hound to help him....relieve his problem. The guard was one of the four people who were aware of his difficulty. Once, after his heat had passed, the young prince had asked his guard if the man would be willing to help the next time around. Much to the boy's disappointment, Sandor had flat-out refused.

Still, the blond's thoughts wandered to their. While not fair to look upon, the Hound was exactly what the Omega in Joffrey wanted—big, strong, commanding. He was probably even rough during sex, which was something the prince craved during his heats. When his ass was in the air, and his body was on fire, he wanted a rough, passionate fuck from a huge, thick cock in his ass. _I bet he could do that,_ the boy thought, glancing to the guard's crotch out of the corner of his eye. Although he was not currently in heat, his own length still hardened, aroused by the thought. Joffrey pushed the idea from his mind. _Now is not the time for such thoughts_.

The gate opened slowly, the massive doors cranking back. The prince knew he would raise no suspicion—who dared to question the prince's sworn shield? Joffrey himself was dressed in rags, a hood covering his blond hair and regal face. The Hound had told the guards that this was a mission for the royal household, hinting that it was a serving boy being sent to a diplomat in Essos with a...taste for young boys. Just the thought of someone using him like that made Joffrey's hole clench, the warmth of desire filling his abdomen. Once again, the blond boy forced the image from his thoughts. _Who would have suspected a prince to have such terrible wants?_

But it had all made sense to Joffrey. _That_ was the reason the idea of being king felt so wrong. He was not made to rule. While the Maester had made it clear that many Omegas were submissive to there Alpha and no others, Joffrey was certain that was said mostly for his mother's benefit. He suspected that those Omegas still had a submissive instinct, but simply suppressed it. The prince did not want to live that way, holding back and constantly fighting his own nature. He had tried to argue that this meant Tommen should sit the throne, not him, but the Queen would not hear of it. She had even banned the blond-haired boy from telling the King. The woman had claimed it was because “she did not want to worry him,” but Joffrey knew the truth. She loved to cause his father pain, but she hid this because of shame and fear of Robert's reaction. Joffrey's father might have beaten him, or disinherited him from the throne.

If he was honest with himself, Joffrey was terrified. He feared his mother's anger, because she seemed to blame _him_ for being what he was. He feared his father's rage, and the potential beatings and shame if the great, manly _King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name_ found out his son was an _Omega_. Joffrey feared what would happen if the public found out, the shame it would bring on him and his family, not to mention the possible violent responses to such an _abomination._ He cringed at the thought. _That word_. He now hated that word. His mother seemed to find a way to bring it in to every conversation they had these past weeks, bringing up feelings of shame and self-hatred. But what the young prince feared the most was his so-called destiny. The thought of sitting the Iron Throne, of being King, made him feel physically ill.

When someone told him what to do, Joffrey wanted to comply. He wanted to raise his head, bare his neck, lie belly-up. He wanted to _submit_. It just felt right to listen to the will of another. It was worst when the command came from a man, especially a large or strong or attractive man. Whether he was in heat or not, the prince couldn't help but imagine what hung between their legs, and how it would feel inside of him. When a man told him something, even if it was just a suggestion, Joffrey had an overwhelming desire to comply.

Weeks passed, and Joffrey would spend the time of his heat hidden in his room, claiming illness. In reality, he would spend the time moaning and whining in desperation and need, ass as high as he could make it go, back arched. The fluid from his entrance dripped down his thighs and soaked the bed, and the prince would spend hours burying his fingers in the hole, trying to reach that _need_. It always failed. Pycelle (due to the Queen) had refused any suggestion of...implements to aid in the stimulation, but the blonde boy had secreted a number of vegetables and other long, smooth items to try and help with his primal urge. They were slightly more effective than his own digits, but the small bit they sated paled in comparison to the ocean of desire and want.

He had begged, _begged_ , his mother to let him hire a whore, a male whore, to help fight this primal want. She had flat-out refused, slapping him across the face. _Kings do not bend over for men. KINGS ARE NOT CATAMITES_.And Joffrey obeyed. He listened. He knew that it was submissive of him, that, in doing so, he was complying with his Omega nature instead of defying it as a leader should, but he was also listening to his Mother. And it felt good to obey, it felt _right_ , even if it meant the days of misery and desire.

Then his father came back from his hunt days early, abdomen torn open by the tusk of a boar. The day had been the worst of the prince's young life. Joffrey knew the man would die. One look told him that. He feared his father's death, and grieved for him, but the man had always been distant—more interested in whores and boars than his own son, his heir. _Heir_. That is what the prince was more worried about. He would be taking the throne within a week. More likely just a few days. He would be King. He would have to rule. All that he had feared, coming true so soon.

He couldn't do it. That much he knew. That was why Joffrey now found himself boarding a ship in the middle of the night, set to leave at first light. He had paid off guards so that he would not be discovered missing until hours after his departure, and his dog and the guards would point the Queen in the wrong direction. Joffrey felt a twinge of guilt about hurting his mother, and knowing what the evidence he had left would suggest. But he needed as much time as he could get. His destination was far away.

Selecting where to go had been one of the most difficult parts of the plan. He had considered his uncles, but he felt no love for either of them. He thought of the North, knowing his Mother had no influence there, but he knew the Starks were not likely to look kindly on him after the business on the Kingsroad. And it was clear that the North blamed his family for what had happened to the boy—they had captured his uncle Tyrion. He scoffed at the notion of going to Essos, or the Free Cities. He remembered what they called Viserys Targaryen. _The Beggar King. And he_ **wanted** _the Iron Throne. What would I be called? The Coward King?_ No matter where he considered, there was always the same problem—why would anyone take him in when he was severing all bonds with his family (and thus had no political power), when sheltering him was a risk to themselves and their family?

Finally, he knew there was only one place he could go: A place where any man was accepted and no King's influence was felt. A place where he would be fed and clothed, and could sever all ties with his previous life. It was more than expected. In fact, it was required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first--the stories of each of the characters are all happening in the same universe (and thus will affect one another), but they are not happening at the same time, and the chapters are not posted in chronological order. The story of each individual will be in order, but not when compared to the other characters. 
> 
> Second--I'm sorry this took so long. I have a buffer of a few chapters, and I won't let myself post a chapter until I write a new one. The first three I wrote before college started. Now that it has started, I will be slower (I hate to be that author--I was always annoyed that my favorite fanfics never kept to a deadline--but now I understand why). Also, and I'm serious about this, comments (and, to an extent, kudos) help encourage me to write. I see that I got a comment and I go and bang out a few more paragraphs. So, if you're really anxious for a new chapter, comments are the best way to hasten it. Thanks for staying with me.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback and comments are welcome!


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